


you should know if i could

by silklace



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, LA Era (Crooked Media RPF), M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silklace/pseuds/silklace
Summary: Jon goes into heat. It’s a problem for just about everybody.





	you should know if i could

**Author's Note:**

> i have 27 million other things I should be doing, so here's my first stab at ABO dynamics, which I have truly only a passing understanding of...
> 
> title is from Selena Gomez's "Hands to Myself" for...reasons.
> 
> Please respect the fourth wall and do not share in any capacity with anyone directly or indirectly related! <3

When Jon strips down to his undershirt in the over-air-conditioned room, Dan says, “Are you - ?”

Jon shakes his head, lips tight. “I’m fine.”

“You look –”

“Fine,” Jon says again, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he takes a deep breath through his nose. There’s sweat starting to bead up along his hairline. 

Lovett says, “Oh, good,” and shuts his laptop, pushing back from the table. “Well, I’m not getting fucked over because someone forgot to take their suppressants –”

“I _took_ them, you can check my bag,” Jon says. His teeth are gritted, his arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s – holding himself together. 

“Okay,” Tommy says. At the same time, Dan offers, “Some people develop a tolerance over time, you know.”

There’s silence in the hotel room for a beat, and then Jon puts his face down on the table where they’ve been prepping tonight’s live show for the last couple of hours. “I do.” He swallows. “I do know that.”

Lovett, who’s been standing with his own laptop folded protectively in front of him since he stood up, says, “I’m out. Ronan’s too fucking busy to come take care of a heat if – no, _when_ Jon spreads it to me. He’s like a fucking radioactive signal when he’s like this.”

Tommy clenches his fist against his thigh. Jon’s so careful about his heats, always taking his suppressants at the exact same time every day, meticulous because he knows they do affect other omegas, trip them over into it with him like some kind of fucked up chemical takedown. 

“I’m sorry, Lo,” Jon says, faintly muffled from where his face is still pressed to the table.

Dan stands up. “I’m gonna start calling the back-up roster,” he announces, which pulls a low, fatal sounding groan from Jon. 

“It’s not your fault,” Tommy says, voice pitched soft so Jon can hear him, and feels even worse when Jon goes still, the muscles in his back locking up in tension. 

Tommy stands up. “I’ll go down stairs and see if they have any -”

“No,” Jon says, and his voice sounds shot through and strained. He finally lifts his head from the table, but he doesn’t look at any of them. There’re dark patches of sweat under his arms, and his face is shiny, too. 

He licks his lips. “I mean.” He tries to laugh, but it’s thin and forced sounding. “Can’t Dan go?”

Tommy looks up as Lovett slams the door shut again, without stepping through it. “Why do you care if Tommy leaves?”

“I’ll just be a minute,” Tommy says, carefully, but Jon’s already shaking his head, lips tight again. 

“Dan can go, right?” Jon sounds like he’s aiming for reasonable and neutral. His fingers flex and clench against the grip of his shirt. 

“Dan can go,” Dan says, nodding slowly. 

From the door, Lovett pitches, “Dan, why does Jon care if Tommy goes?”

Tommy feels something snap in his chest. “Lovett, weren’t you leaving?”

“I don’t know, Tommy, probably I will, I’m just wondering why Jon’s acting like you’re his alpha. Except you’re not an alpha. And you’re not, to my knowledge, his. Which I think I would know.”

“Tommy,” Jon says, in a tense, low whisper. His arms are still hooked around his ribs in a tight cross, like he’s trying to hold himself back from - “Don’t.” He takes a breath and looks down at his knees, or his arms, or the table. Tommy can’t tell. “Don’t. go.”

From across the room, Lovett makes a disbelieving sound, a hot flush crawling up his throat. Tommy swivels towards him - he’s hunched in on himself by the door, and Tommy says, “It’s not like that,” and turns back around just in time to watch Jon flinch like he’s been slapped, a tight flash of pain across his face. 

It isn’t like that, it isn’t – not when Tommy’s a beta and Jon’s an omega whose heats are so intense he flips every other omega in the room with him. He remembers it from his college sociology class - how over half of beta/omega relationships dissolve, suggesting that the chemical structures of these groups may be, his professor had said, fundamentally incompatible.

He remembers in DC, when Jon had gone into heat in the middle of an exceptionally stressful week after forgetting his suppressants, how he’d taken half the omega staff down with him, including Lovett, how Axe had said, half laughing, half-serious, as he’d walked with Tommy down the halls of the EEOB, that Jon was going to need a strong alpha to match him, and Tommy had said, “Anything less would be unfair to Jon,” and Axe had looked at him and hadn’t said anything else. 

“It’s not,” Tommy says, now, only he – he - 

He doesn’t even realize he’s angling himself between Jon and the rest of the room until Dan’s touching his shoulder and saying lowly, “Hey.”

Jon stands up, flash quick, “Maybe you shouldn’t -,” he says, and then steels himself with a palm flat on the table, reeling back. He grits his teeth. “You don’t have to touch him,” he says, mottled flush creeping along his throat and chest. 

Tommy’s not an alpha, so there’s no reason why – there’s no reason why he should be –

Jon’s gaze finally, finally tracks over to Tommy. 

“I think you should go,” Tommy says, quietly, and even though he’s looking back at Jon, there seems to be little doubt from everyone in the room that he’s talking to Dan. 

“Oh my god, you fucked him,” Lovett says, and Jon breathes in sharp through his nose, without looking away from Tommy. 

“Lovett,” Dan says, firmly, and Tommy wonders distantly and a little hysterically if they’re going to have to cancel the show, with the way Lovett is now, flushed and trembling and needy against his will; how Dan’s voice has gone firm and gentle towards Lovett, the way alphas do when omegas are distressed mid-heat. He should call Tanya, see if Ronan can fly in, or Howli, if they can get back-up for tonight – for apparently, the whole fucking team - and Jon is, still, not looking away from Tommy, and Tommy can see the way his chest is heaving under the thin material of his t-shirt. 

Dan steps in front of Tommy, and that should mean that Tommy’s able to focus on him for even – a second, but instead, all he can see is how Jon’s flush goes burgundy on his skin. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, “It’s gonna be okay,” and Jon says, plaintive and wrecked, “Tommy,” and Lovett, with his face in the hinge of his elbows, says, “Dan, I need you to call Ronan.”

“Okay,” Dan says, “I can do that. I can do that for you, Lovett, just give me –,” he turns towards Tommy and snaps his fingers in front of Tommy’s face. “Is this – is this what you want? Because you don’t have to.” 

Jon takes a step forward, and, there’s a look on his face Tommy hasn’t seen before, like he’s – 

“It’s okay,” Tommy says, and he’s not sure who he’s talking to but before Jon can do more than take a second step forward, Tommy skirts around Dan so he can catch him around the waist and haul him against the wall, pin him there with his body while Jon keens and drops his head back to expose his throat. “I got you,” Tommy says, voice low and bracing and shaking. “I’m gonna take care of you, you don’t have to -,” he swallows, nosing along Jon’s sweaty temple. “You don’t have to worry, okay?”

“C’mon, Lovett,” he hears Dan say, soft and gentle, while Lovett whines and says, “This is so goddamn unfair, Ronan’s _busy_ ,” and Dan says, “I know, I know,” soft and soothing, until the door clicks closed. 

“I thought you were going to leave,” Jon is saying, frantic, gripping the back of Tommy’s shirt in both hands, “I thought they were going to try to take you from – I didn’t want you to go, Tommy –”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, the back of his throat feeling scratchy and hard. “I’m – I’m right here. I got you, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” Jon says, mindless, because it doesn’t stop the frantic search of his hands, the way he’s dipping his chin forward to slide it against Tommy’s jaw, like he’s trying to say something by it. “I want you to –,” he bites out. His hips push forward, seeking – and Tommy – something knotted in his chest, says, “I don’t –”

“You _can_ -”

“What do you –.” Jon’s exposing his throat, pulling Tommy’s hand against his belly, and Tommy has to – has to tug Jon’s palm up to his mouth, kiss the curved cup of his hand there. “I can’t,” he says, because isn’t that the crux of things? He can’t give Jon what he wants. What he needs.

“Please, you can, I want it –”

“I know, I know you do,” Tommy says, and even though he’s not – he’s _not_ \- there isn’t any chemical fucking scent telling him to put his face in the crook of Jon’s neck, he _wants_ to, even though it shouldn’t – it shouldn’t _do_ anything, Jon makes a sharp, unhinged noise, the arch of his neck dangerous he’s trying so hard to give Tommy access to his throat. 

“Yes,” he breathes, hushed, the back of his hand coming up to cradle Tommy’s skull. “I’m – fuck, you can do anything you want to me. You can, please -”

“I don’t -,” Tommy says, and Jon’s litany of “please” is like a punch to the solar plexus, and because he can’t think straight with Jon twisting and writhing against him, flips Jon around so he’s braced, face forward, against the wall. 

A shiver unlocks its way down Jon’s spine. Tommy puts his mouth on the back of his neck. 

“Tommy,” Jon says, like it’s been wrenched out of him.

“Okay,” Tommy says, and sticks his hands down the back of Jon’s pants. “Is this -,” he says, pushing his fingers forward until they find the hot, tight, clench of his hole. “What you want?”

“Yes,” Jon groans, almost sobbing, almost, but not quite, with relief. The angle is off, too tight, and Tommy can just get the tips of his fingers to graze where Jon wants it, but he’s already – 

“So wet,” Tommy grunts, and removes his hand long enough to shove Jon’s pants down off his hips before he’s putting his fingers back against Jon’s hole, just touching, feeling the way Jon’s slicked up and hot already, like he’s been wanting it for ages, aching for it, trying so hard to not let it show as the blistering curl of want built up and up until he couldn’t help himself, until he was desperate and helpless for it – 

Tommy drops to his knees and nuzzles at the curve of Jon’s ass. He rubs at Jon’s slick hole with his fingertips, barely applying pressure, even though he’s so wet with it that he could – could nudge the tips of his middle and index finger in there together, easy-like – but before he can decide to do anything, Jon’s shoving back for it, a high-pitched sob climbing out of his throat. “Tommy, please, please,” he gets out, and Tommy says, “okay, okay,” and lets him fuck himself back on his fingers with a low, guttural groan. 

“Good?” He kisses the globe of Jon’s ass, a hot-open mouthed, sucking kiss that leaves a red mark. He wants to put marks like that all over Jon, so that if anyone were to ever – see him, ever again, like this, they’d know he belonged to Tommy first and always. 

“Yes,” Jon hisses, hips working back and forth, and then, quickly, like he can’t help himself. “Not enough. S'not - more, please, I need more.”

“I know,” Tommy says. It’s not – it’s not enough. For what Jon needs. He adds a third finger, sucked easily into the tight heat of Jon’s ass, and fucks forward as deep as he can, pulling a shocked, choked sound from Jon. 

He stands, keeping his fingers tucked inside of Jon, moving them gently in a fucking motion. Tommy wants to make it good for him. “How do you -,” he presses his forehead against Jon’s sweaty neck. Stops himself from asking, says instead, “You’re dripping all over me, baby,” because he is, the wet slickness coating Tommy’s fingers, starting to roll down towards his wrist even. 

“Please,” Jon says, “It’s – I need your. I can ride you, if you want?” He twists, like he’s trying to reach for him, but Tommy holds him, not ready yet – for that. He kisses the side of Jon’s face, still finger fucking him. Jon babbles, “Or suck your dick first, you want that? You want me to? And then you can – you can fuck me. Forever, Tommy, I want it, forever, like before -”

“God, okay,” Tommy says, and then he does pull his fingers from Jon, so that he can push him towards the bed instead, hooking his own shirt off over his head as he goes. Jon stumbles along backwards, shoving off his shirt, kicking his way out of his pants. 

He flops backwards on the bed, reaches for Tommy, a half-smile on his mouth. “Like before,” he says again. “Last time, when you – fucked me, like, all night.”

Tommy’s chest lurches, remembering how, the first time – the only time, his brain reminds him – he’d laid Jon out and fucked him on his belly, held off on his own orgasm as long as he could because he couldn’t – he couldn’t give him what he wanted, not really, or what he needed, and so he’d given him as much as possible, as much as he could possibly give and for as long as he wanted it, and then when Tommy couldn’t get hard anymore, his fingers, tucked inside of Jon as he shook and trembled in Tommy’s arms all night, his first heat like a slow roil from the inside out. 

Now, he kisses Jon and says, “Do you have a toy?”

Jon falters, the half-smile going flat for a minute, and then he kisses Tommy back, sighing happily against his lips, like he’s trying to hold back some of the frenetic energy and just – just be with Tommy. He’s – so good, all of the time, even when it’s hard.

Tommy wants this to be good for him. “If you have one – or if you don’t, we can, I’m sure, the hotel staff have gotten weirder requests. Probably.”

Jon’s brow is wrinkled, like he’s trying really hard to concentrate. His hands are trembling where they’re touching Tommy’s hips and chest. He kisses him on his belly. “I don’t need – we don’t need one.” 

Tommy sighs. “I can’t knot you.”

“I don’t care,” Jon says, “I don’t – I don’t want, I just want you, Tommy.”

“But I can’t -,” Tommy grunts in frustration. He’s not explaining himself well here. “I can’t give you what you need. I can’t make it better for you, right now.”

“Yes, you can,” Jon says, still maddeningly confused, although now the pitch of his voice is trembly and needy again, as if his heat can tell that something is going wrong, going bad. “You can, I _need_ it, Tommy, I need you to fuck me, until I can’t breathe, until I can’t – walk –”

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy says, feeling that like a kick in the mouth. Jon’s hands are on his pants, fumbling to undo them and Tommy wants that, his dick is so hard it hurts, but he had, a point, a thought – 

“I wanna make it – right for you,” he says and Jon says, “You will,” and then he’s pulling Tommy down on top of him, spreading his thighs and lifting his arms above his head, like he wants Tommy to pin him again, like he was before against the wall, only this time he wants it on the bed, Tommy big and bracing above him, and so Tommy does, planting his knees into the bedspread and hiking Jon’s legs around his waist so he can fuck into him in one sharp movement that has Jon squeezing his eyes shut and breathing out, “Yes,” long and sibilant and slow, like it’s – the perfect fit, Tommy inside of him, like it’s what he’s been waiting for, since forever ago, since that night in the flophouse when Jon had come to him, fever hot, and said, “Tommy, I need -,” and Tommy, 26 and stupid, had just wanted to – just wanted to help, hadn’t known he was screwing up so monumentally, hadn’t known that Jon’s first time should’ve been – was supposed to be – with an alpha, otherwise it – fucked everything up, rewired it, reoriented Jon towards the one thing he couldn’t have, made his heats unbearable, made it impossible for him to be around Tommy during his heats, like a - god, almost like a bond, like Tommy had forced a bond on him –

“I’m sorry,” he’s whispering now, fucking ferociously into Jon, so hard it makes his teeth hurt. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” a litany against Jon’s cheek, his jaw, his throat, while Jon is gasping and moving up for it, body bowing up towards Tommy like – Tommy thinks, through a flash of horror, like he can’t help himself. 

“Tommy,” Jon is saying, a clawed-out sounding word. “I’m gonna -,” and then he is, body tightening around Tommy in his first orgasm, cock jumping untouched on his belly as he comes, as Tommy moves his grip to Jon’s hips and holds him there, fucking him through it, hard enough to lift him off the bed, Jon's fingers scrabbling against the duvet. 

Tommy wonders, as Jon pants below him, already squirming around for more friction on Tommy’s cock, ready to go again, if Jon’s heats would be less – intense, if he allowed himself to have them more often. 

“You didn’t come, right?” 

Tommy shakes his head. “Thank you,” Jon says, sounding absurdly grateful. “Thank you, Tommy,” he says, kissing him and smiling, looking exhausted and fucked out but ready to go again. “I’ll ride you, for this one?” 

“Okay,” Tommy says, and lets Jon tip him onto his back and clamber to sink back onto his cock, sighing once he’s seated. 

“So good,” he says, smiling down at Tommy. He’s flushed and shiny all over, his eyes dark with blown out arousal. “You feel so fucking good inside of me,” he says, and as if to emphasize his point, lifts up all the way until the head of Tommy’s dick is teasing at his hole, and then sinks back down again. 

When he goes to do it again, Tommy holds him fast by the hips. “Just -,” he says, breath tight.

Jon leans down and kisses him on the mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry, I’ll go slow.”

They fuck for the rest of the night. After the first time Tommy comes, he pushes his fingers back inside of Jon and brings him off like that a couple of times until he can get hard again. When Jon’s so wet with come and slick that he’s starting to get uncomfortable, Tommy shoves him in the shower, then helps him get wet all over again with his mouth, kneeling behind him while Jon trembles with his cheek against the tile wall. Jon rides him at least three times, and one time Tommy sits in the chair while he does it, makes Jon sit in his lap back to front so he can whisper in his ear the whole time about what it would be like to do this with an audience, how Tommy would make Jon fuck himself on Tommy’s dick, so everyone would know who he belongs to. Jon shivers and arches and comes all over himself. 

Around midnight, Tommy kisses the inside of Jon’s thigh and says, “Should we order room service?” He’s not particularly hungry, but maybe – 

Jon, who had been gamely trying to pretend he was fine waiting for Tommy to get hard again, that Tommy’s fingers were enough, hefts himself up on his elbows and says, “No one else – no one else gets to even fucking – talk to you, right now, Tommy,” and Tommy has to hide his grin – stupid, stupid – by flipping Jon over onto his belly and sliding into him again. 

They nap, sometimes. It’s not really sleeping – Jon’s skin is too feverish hot for him to really go under into sleep, but he closes his eyes, pulls Tommy against him, and lets Tommy watch his chest rise and fall for a few minutes at least, wondering how long Jon’s heat will be, how much time he has – 

Jon’s first heat lasted three days. 

He kisses Jon’s closed eyelids, wonders: _Do I get three more days?_

It’s mid-morning when it happens – he’s licking Jon’s jaw, his neck, working his dick in and out of him in a steady pattern, when he notices that Jon’s skin isn’t burning up anymore, that his moans for the last few minutes haven’t been quite so frenetic.

“That’s so nice, Tommy,” Jon says, and he sounds – like himself. 

“Oh,” Tommy says, pulling back on his elbows. “Are you - ?”

“Hi,” Jon says. He smiles up at Tommy, biting the inside of his cheek. Like he’s – shy. 

“Do you want me to – stop?” Tommy asks, and feels himself go red when Jon blinks at him. Of course does, he shouldn’t have even asked –

Jon tightens his legs around Tommy’s hips, holding him in place. “What’re you doing?” He sounds panicky. He laughs, blushing, and relaxes his hold. “Sorry, you must be sore.”

“I’m okay,” Tommy says, just as Jon says, “We can stop, if you want.”

Tommy looks at him. He feels, suddenly, very tired. “The only thing I want is you,” he says, finally. He – probably should have said that when his dick – was not inside of Jon, when he couldn’t smell Jon on his skin. Possibly he should’ve –

“Sorry,” Jon says, carefully and slowly. “When I said I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk, was that – uh.” He rubs at his forehead. “I don’t know how to be – more clear. Clearer. Was that – that was unclear?”

Tommy swallows. “You were in heat.”

Jon levers himself up onto his elbows. Tommy’s dick is _still_ inside of him. He feels like, maybe, they should be having this conversation. Elsewhere. In another bodily configuration. Literally any other bodily configuration. 

Jon says, “We lived with four alphas in Chicago, Tommy. Literally,” he swallows. “Literally every other person in that house was an alpha.”

“I know,” Tommy says. His throat hurts again. 

“I went to you. I – didn’t want. To go to anyone else. Then. Or – or now.”

“Oh.”

Something complicated passes over Jon’s face. “I’m sorry, I thought. If you don’t want – I completely, I totally understand –”

“I love you,” Tommy blurts out. Jon blinks at him. Tommy swallows past the stone in his throat. “I love you, Jon.” 

Ten years is probably long enough of waiting. 

Something soft unfolds along Jon’s face. He drops his elbows, lowers back onto the bed, eyes half-lidded. “Tell me again,” he says. 

Tommy presses his face to Jon’s neck. Not because of any chemical signal. There’s never been any chemical signal. He just likes to put his face there. “I love you,” he says, into the skin of Jon’s throat. “I love you,” he says, against Jon’s cheekbone, the corner of his eye, his mouth, his chin. He starts to work his hips again, not even with the intention of moving towards orgasm, but because he wants to get closer to Jon, wants to feel the arc of their bodies shifting in orbit against each other. 

“Yeah,” Jon says, softly and unhurriedly. “Tommy,” he says, and it sounds like he’s always said it, only for the first time, Tommy realizes it’s the same way he says, “Yes.” 

“You’ve been saying yes to me, all this time?” The morning light is coming through the window in slow, soft waves.

Jon looks at him. “Tommy,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> please feel free to imagine at will the extremely awkward post-heat Jon/Tommy/Ronan/Lovett/Dan/Howli brunch that inevitably occurs in which everyone makes a valiant effort to talk about their Feelings but really they're too tired from fucking to give it much more than the old college try
> 
> +++
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback and comments welcome and adored! <3


End file.
